


Reward System - The Coulson Card

by AdamantSteve



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Dating, Fluffy, Get Together, M/M, clint's ongoing fanon issues with medical, except it's so not dating (it is), free meals, mental health improvement, phil's a good handler, reward system, safe sex!, thrifty clint, unconventional therapy, vague implications of an abusive childhood (Clint's), workaholic Phil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-06
Updated: 2013-11-06
Packaged: 2017-12-31 15:42:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1033430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdamantSteve/pseuds/AdamantSteve
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil gives Clint a card which he'll stamp every time Clint (quietly, without fuss) goes to medical. When he's been nine times, he gets a free meal of his choice. </p><p>How could Clint resist?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reward System - The Coulson Card

**Author's Note:**

> Super massive thanks to my beta Dunicha and further help from Rose Of Skye (RoS13), SummerOtaku and oliviaisthebomb who helped me out with some plot issues!

 

 

Clint likes a good deal. Sniffing out bargains comes easy to a guy who's spent most of his life on the wrong side of the breadline. If you can get two for the price of one, you'd be a straight up idiot _not_ to. 

 

There's things you learn when you need to learn them, like how far you can stretch a dollar and the few things that you just can't scrimp on. Even those - decent arrows, solid boots, a thick winter coat - can be found for cheap or second hand, and as much as Clint knows the right person to go to for a job in each city, he also knows just the right thrift store to find exactly what he might need for any given occasion.

 

When you take a fall or work your body too hard, you ache for a while, and Clint's always been used to some sort of scab being around to pick at or an ache that won't go away til another one comes along in its place. Doctors are great and all, but unless they're giving away advice at the free clinic or giving him bandages to sort himself out at home, Clint has no time for them, because he looks after his _bow_ himself, and who can take better care of his things than he can? 

 

The ability to spot a good deal never goes away, no matter where Clint is or what his salary is. Why pay more when you don't have to? Clint Barton is no rube. He can still sense when something's good quality, when something's worth its price tag. Clint knows that it's not often that the price of something can reflect the actual value of it, but every so often he'll see the fine tooling on an antique gun or feel the thread count of some expensive piece of clothing and _know_ that it's something special, something that was very carefully put together. As a man who tries to be the best at the things he does, Clint can appreciate good workmanship no matter how out of his league it might be.

 

Even after signing up with SHIELD, and a bank balance that steadily grows along with Clint's confidence that this is for real - that there's no long-con in play and that SHIELD really does have his back, the ability to spot a bargain and the quiet thrill it gives him never goes away. If Clint was the kind of person who got embarrassed about people thinking he's poor or trashy, he'd probably hide the way he gravitates towards the discount section in any store he's in, or shy away from anything not marked down. But he's not that kind of person, and far as Clint Barton's concerned, TJ Maxx is awesome and everyone who buys their clothes at full price is an idiot. 

 

Clint goes to Denny's on his birthday for the free meal his driver's license earns him, even if afterwards he still ends up being dragged places where they charge you so much for a drink you could buy a whole bottle in the store with the same money. Free food tastes better, that's just a fact. 

 

It's that, then, which must bring his handler to him one day, when Clint's on the range trying to get a sore shoulder back to rights after a clumsy fall, with another little scheme trying to get Clint into medical. He still has a black eye and a scab on the bridge of his nose which he's been trying his best not to pick at, and Coulson looks kind of constipated every time he looks at him. 

It's one of their main bones of contention - Clint not seeing the point in wasting other people's time and money on medical treatments and consultations (and x-rays! Always with the x-rays!) when he knows his own body, his bones and his flesh, knows how to put them right. Ever since the time (the one time!) he actually did break a bone and couldn't draw his bow, and medical had found a whole mess of old fractures in his bones (that had healed just fine), Coulson gets his panties in a bunch over Clint going to medical after every little scrape or bump to the head and now he's come up with this _idea_.

 

He looks all concerned at the state of Clint's messed up face (it's just a black eye, as if they aren't practically part of his uniform at this point) and visibly tries not to go off on one ('you're one of our best assets, Barton, how do you think it makes me look when you look like you lost a fight against the Abomination?') but proposes this: if Clint goes to medical, oh, (he says it all casual, like he hasn't planned everything out beforehand) eight or nine times without complaint, Coulson'll take him out to dinner - on SHIELD's dime, of course, and he makes that very clear, like he's worried Clint might think it's a ruse to get him to go on a date or something. That's a funny idea on its own and has Clint agreeing before really thinking about it. The thought of buttoned up million-thread-count Coulson and Clint Barton wolfing down snails and asparagus or whatever the fuck rich people eat is far too funny to pass up. 

 

Coulson's never done him wrong, not really (though his thing with medical has meant Clint's pretty sure they try to do about five times the things they need to at once when he's in there - why do they need to x-ray him all the time when he just has, like, a bullet wound?) so Clint says yes, and they shake hands, and then Coulson just keeps standing there looking at him with his pleasant everyman smile as if - "Wait, what? Now?!"

 

"Oh, that reminds me," Coulson says as if he's fucking Columbo, reaching into his suit pocket for one of his business cards that are all fancy and thick and understated (and y'know, have an RFiD chip in them and cost like $500 each) and handing it over. "I made you this." 

 

On the back is a neat grid of nine squares drawn in what looks like fountain pen. The lines have been traced a few times til they're all neat and even, and one of the squares has a tiny little smiley face drawn in it and a date - today's date. Clint looks up from the card and curses, because really? "Now? Why?!" 

"You still didn't get checked out after your last mission," he looks imperiously at the target down the range, "and your form is off. C'mon." 

He turns and starts walking and Clint has no choice other than to follow him, though he bitches and complains and calls Coulson a traitor the whole way.

 

The people in medical all seem quietly amazed that he's there, and wary that he's gonna disappear into a vent or something (fat chance, Clint's well aware that they welded the grates shut since last time he tried to shimmy his way into the store room to grab some bandages). They fuss around him, apparently overjoyed at getting to poke him and prod him and knock tiny hammers against his joints. Coulson stands impassively by throughout it all, even the x-rays (and they seem to have a field day there, Clint's pretty sure they x-ray every single bone in his body). They take blood samples and shine lights in his eyes and it's all horrible, but Clint lets them, and maybe he's a bit of an idiot for it, because he doesn't _need_ a free meal these days, but he starts thinking about where he'll want Coulson to take him and the thought of that gets him through it.

 

-

 

Medical get on Clint's ass about old fractures and some scars that aren't in his records, as if Clint can remember every single time he's been injured. He shrugs and tries his best to be cool with it, but the medical people are skittish around him anyway so when they sense his 'please don't ask me anymore goddamn questions' simmering rage they back off about things. 

 

Coulson's pleased as punch about having a full medical file on Clint, and Clint's pretty sure it's because he's such a nerd, and having a full set of data in Clint's records is tantamount to completing the set. But he goes all constipation-face over some of the things and isn't so easily put off with shrugs and glowering (which is, Clint would only ever privately admit, the reason he's a good handler). He doesn't say anything, but a pamphlet for a SHIELD-approved psych appears mysteriously in Clint's pigeonhole with a tiny little smiley face drawn in one corner of it, which Clint assumes means talking about his feelings to someone with a bunch of certificates will earn him one more stamp on his Coulson Card. 

 

Everyone at SHIELD is (apparently) supposed to go to a shrink a couple times a year (and after any extra-traumatising missions) but Clint's always gotten out of it because he doesn't know what talking about feelings does except make him feel like a dumbass. 

 

Clint Barton likes a free meal but he's not that desperate for one. Besides, they can put two and two together - they have county records of his dad getting arrested and now pretty pictures of his crazy-paving bones, what more do they need? Clint read through his fair share of psychology-for-dummies during library-winters, and yeah, he knows he's got some issues because his dad was an asshole, but that's practically an entry requirement at SHIELD.

 

And yet, he shoots off an email anyway, and he's not sure why when he's done it, sitting back on his bunk and picking off the tiny round bandaid where they drew some blood for their hundreds of tests. He gets a reply almost immediately, and it's rather... casual for a doctor, asking if Clint wants to meet in the park one day to shoot some hoops. Clint frowns, because what? But he grudgingly agrees to it, and then he meets the guy (Andy) and he's this army veteran-turned-therapist with one leg, who's actually kind of awesome, and doesn't go all after school special with weird bonding shit and just loses grumpily at basketball. 

 

Clint likes him. They don't get much psychologising done - the guy doesn't ask about Clint's past at all, but it still somehow earns him a smiley face on his card (and Coulson's been working on his pick-pocketing). He'd feel guilty over it, but hey, Dr Barton MD understands the whole building trust schtick from his long hours at the University of Warm Library. Andy probably extrapolated all sorts of information just from the way Clint ties his shoes, so he doesn't feel too bad. 

 

Coulson has a cute tiny smile over it, which is his version of skipping down the halls yelling "I RULE!" (which is Clint's preferred method of celebrating), and Clint wonders how much information Andy shared and whether or not their rematch will count towards the free meal he's still thinking about. 

 

There's some sushi place which Clint's seen pictures of, in a skyscraper in the city with chandeliers and fish that costs the same as a house, which he's tempted towards purely for the decadence, but another part of him, the part that can't help feel short changed unless he's bursting at the seams after a meal, wants a bigger payoff, and he quietly googles high-end Italian places when he's meant to be paying attention in briefings. A small part of him keeps circling back to the idea of dragging Coulson to a Chuck E. Cheese since it seems like such a once in a lifetime opportunity, but the more tiny smiles that end up on the guy's face, the more Clint wants to keep them there, and he's not sure Chuck E. Cheese would do that. 

 

 -

 

When Coulson gave him the card, Clint figured it would be easy to fill the thing, but either because of dumb luck or purposeful scheduling, he doesn't wind up falling off of anything for weeks, and in the interim meets up with Andy again for another bro-session in the park. 

 

Andy's refreshingly honest about himself, which surprises Clint into being easily honest back, and before he knows it he's complaining about everything he can think of at SHIELD and how much he hates being told he's a victim when he certainly doesn't feel like one, and so what if his dad was a dick, everyone's dad is a dick, that's just how dads are and everyone should just get over it, and Andy grunts and scratches his balls, and Clint thinks he's maybe the best shrink ever. 

 

Another little smiley face appears and Clint takes the card out every now and again to look at, chart his progress on the road to dinner. He thinks about finding a really good burger place and ordering one of everything on the menu, figuring out which one's his favourite. It'd be a lot of food, he thinks, but they could probably share. 

 

-

 

There's a mission at last, and Clint gets captured and it's all par for the course, another couple of black eyes and a loose tooth or two. He's had worse and says so to his captors, cause if there's one thing a tied up Clint Barton can do it's be a distraction so other people can get shit done. It's kind of fun in its own way, goading people into hitting him to the point where they bloody their knuckles. Clint's good at making games out of these things, and he's grinning blearily when Coulson crashes through the door and kills the guys, which seems kind of extreme, since they might've had some useful information. He tries to say so, but it comes out kind of gargle-y what with all the blood and the woozy feeling in his head, and then he passes out right against the miraculously un-ruined fabric on the front of Phil's suit. 

 

He comes to outside, where the Guam sunlight's trying its best to bore right through his skull. When he opens his eyes, there's someone poking at Clint's leg and another doing something to his arm, and he tries to bat them away before realising there's something in his hand. It's the card, and there's already another smiley face on it.

 

Clint figures he might as well stay put.

 

-

 

Andy and Clint go fishing, which is like, the opposite of everything Clint knows - sitting and waiting whilst your target just wanders up to find you - but it's strangely enjoyable, doing such a normal thing in such a normal setting. And Andy's a pretty normal guy even if he is kinda more fucked up than Clint is what with the childhood and the weird shit in the desert. Clint gets it; it's all a part of making Clint feel safe enough to tell him stuff, but it doesn't stop him from asking questions of his own and then answering some of Andy's. He finds he sort of trusts the guy, when they're smacking fish with rocks and pulling their guts out, because he's separate from everything else but still gets Clint's life, and perhaps that's what the idea of a shrink is supposed to be anyway. 

 

Still, Clint can't help but be a little glad that there's no dictaphone or notepad, and when he asks if the stuff he's said is going into his records, Andy shrugs and says he'll write what he remembers, and that he doesn't remember all that much at the best of times. 

 

-

 

There's a few weeks of nothing much happening, just Clint recovering from getting tenderised in Guam and getting another two stamps for being such a good patient. The nurses catch wind of the card and start giving Clint stickers and lollipops too, which he's pretty sure are meant to be a joke but he's happy to take them - they _are_ free. 

 

He's sucking noisily on a lemon and lime flavoured lollipop when he leans on Coulson's door and finds him with his head resting on his folded arms atop a stack of files. It's almost six-thirty already, and Clint realises he's never been past when Coulson hasn't been at his desk, working away, whatever the time of day or night, despite the cleaning crew being as militant as they are about clearing out before seven.

 

"Sir?" Clint says loud enough to rouse him. Coulson blinks awake and then looks very much like he's trying not to look like he just woke up, and it's pretty damn adorable, really.

 

Clint tries not to laugh, but he smiles knowingly, and Coulson rolls his eyes. "Can I help you, Agent Barton?" 

 

Clint pops the lollipop back in his mouth and saunters in, since it's after-hours and he can do (kind of) whatever he pleases. He sits in the chair opposite Coulson's desk and reaches for a stack of post-it notes and a pen. Coulson shuffles his files and starts switching off his computer as Clint busies himself with drawing a grid and a little sleeping stick-figure laying on top of it, taking his time until Coulson's all packed up and waiting for Clint's big reveal.

 

"Phil," Clint says, and he feels like such a dork calling Agent Coulson 'Phil', but here they are. "If you leave this office in the next two minutes you will get one mark on your.... Clint Card." He names it right there and then, and yeah, it's a floppy yellow post-it note and nowhere near as professional as Coulson's crisp, expensive business card, but he doesn't care, holding it out for 'Phil' to take. Coulson takes it and looks at it, mouth quirking into the sort of indulgent 'what _now_?' smile he sometimes sends Clint's way, that Clint jealously and secretly hoards. 

 

He glances at the clock and comes around the desk, still looking at the little square of paper. "And what do I get if I fill it?" he asks, and it's a reasonable question which Clint should have thought of beforehand. But he's an improviser and always has been, and he unzips one of the pockets on his cargo pants and pulls out a lollipop - an orange one - brandishing it with a flourish. Coulson looks between it and Clint's face before chuckling to himself and nodding on his way to the door. He very deliberately steps over the threshold into the corridor before looking at his watch and handing the post-it back. Clint  takes it and scribbles a little face - there's more space on this card than on his own so he takes the opportunity to draw this one with crossed eyes and a sticking-out tongue whilst Coulson patiently waits. When Clint hands it back, Coulson has a smile on his face, and something about that and the way he carefully puts it into his wallet makes Clint feel all kinds of warm.

 

-

 

Turns out, Coulson _loves_ to work. There’s some superteam Fury’s trying to put together, which evidently means stacks of files for Phil to trawl through and annotate. It’s long hours of work, and Clint hustles him out of the office before 6.30 three times before there's some crisis that means he absolutely has to stay late, and there's no real need for it, but Clint brings him greasy Chinese food anyway, and sits and eats with him since he doesn't have much else to do that night anyhow. 

 

And so it goes. Clint turns up and makes an annoyance of himself til Coulson either shoos him away (whereby Clint will show up later with something greasy to eat) or agrees to go home, each time drawing a more elaborate face on the post-it than the last. He eats through the rest of his lollipops but keeps the orange one in his pocket, even when he goes off on an op where miraculously both it and Clint remain unscathed.

 

One night, Clint thinks about going into the city with some of the other agents, finding someone to dance with, maybe pretend like he's still got it, but there's a tiny, silly fear he suddenly gets, that if he's not there to make Phil go home, he might just stay all night long. And he's become Phil, somehow, if only in Clint's mind, though he doesn't say anything the few times Clint accidentally calls him that. He's not sure how much Phil's ever called him by his first name either but he finds that he likes it anyway, even if he never noticed it before. 

 

Clint tells Andy about the cards one day, and how if this session counts - throwing hoops and complaining that Andy's fake leg has springs in it - he'll only need one more trip to medical to be in with his promised free meal. Andy doesn't ask, but Clint tells him anyway that he's a little sad about it running out, how it's kind of nice having a reason to go to medical. Andy points out that the reason to go to medical is that they fix you and give you fake legs with springs in them, not because someone will bribe you into going. Clint thinks about the lollipop still moldering away in his cargo pants and says 'whatever' before slam dunking the ball and cartwheeling away. 

 

Apparently it does count, another neat little face appearing on the card with one space to go, and a note to one side asking, 'HAVE YOU DECIDED WHERE YOU WANT TO GO?' in Phil's neat, all-caps handwriting. He hasn't - still torn between the sublime and the ridiculous - the grand river-side bistros vs the pay-by-weight rib places, avant garde fusion restaurants vs hippy vegan bean palaces, he can't decide what he wants to do, and does what he often ends up doing when he's at a loss these days - he asks Phil.

 

Phil's down to two marks on his own card, the sticky bit all grey and furry from being handled but still pretty flat; well looked after as post-it notes go. He looks at the clock in surprise when Clint moseys on into the office and sits down, looking a little bit relieved to see that it's only half past four. "Do you like chicken?" Clint asks, twirling his own card between his fingers. Phil purses his lips and half-nods, as non-committal as can be. "I told you, it's your choice, Clint. You want chicken? We'll eat chicken." 

 

Clint nods slowly. "Do you like horses?" 

Phil frowns but then concedes, "I've never eaten horse but I'm game to try."

Clint snorts, but somehow that makes up his mind. "Alright, I know where I want to go." Phil looks at him expectantly but Clint shakes his head. "I'll drive us. I mean, when I finish my card." 

 

"Ok," says Phil with an expression that says he's not entirely sure what he's gotten himself into. 

 

-

 

It works out rather perfectly, in some ways, Clint gets a great big gash along his forearm and couldn't be happier to go into medical, bleeding everywhere. He rescues Coulson from Paperwork Mountain when he's done, wearing proud stickers declaring his testicular health and his love of brushing his teeth. Clint draws a tiny man with his thumbs up in the final square on the post-it whilst Phil draws a smiley face with a little star around it in the last square on the business card. 

 

The place Clint wants to go isn't open til the weekend, so Clint arranges a time to pick Phil up on Saturday (and neither of them say anything about how they're both available at such short notice on a weekend). Clint doesn't say where they're going and Phil doesn't ask, which is just as well since he's not great at lying to Coulson and he really does want it to be a surprise.  

 

As they're walking out to the elevator, Phil asks where his lollipop is, since, "I've been waiting for this orange lollipop for weeks." Clint fishes in his cargo pants and there it is, a little fluffy but mostly intact. He grimaces as he holds it out but Phil takes it anyway, looking down on it and smiling. "Thank you," he says when he looks up again, and it's just a dumb lollipop, it's no big deal, but uh, it's nice.

 Clint shakes his head for some reason, quietly smiling back and saying, "You're welcome." 

 

-

 

"You look nice," is the first thing Clint says when he sees Phil on Saturday, which makes it way too much like a date when it so is not a date. But he really does look nice; in a suit like always, but a bluer one than Clint's ever seen before, and his shirt isn't closed all the way and he's holding a tie in his hand. Phil looks like he thinks Clint's joking, climbing into the car and turning to him to ask, "Do I need a tie? Am I under or overdressed?" And Clint's never seen him this unsure about himself, it's disarming. 

 

For his part, Clint didn't really think about the fact that Phil would have assumed it was a suit-worthy occasion, and considers scrapping his plan all together since this must be a special suit if he's never seen it before and it seems like a shame to change now. He looks down at his own dark jeans (smart jeans but jeans nonetheless) and button-down shirt and shrugs. "I think you'll be ok."

 

Phil looks skeptical but tucks the tie in his pocket before doing up his seatbelt. Clint watches him happily, and isn't sure how this came to pass but is ever so glad that it did. 

 

It's a fairly long drive out to the place, and Phil figures it out when they're nearly there, judging by the wry look on his face. The crenelations on the top of the wooden castle rise up into the sky as they get closer, til they're parking amidst sawdust and great lumps of horseshit and a teenager in a dark green and silver tabard directs them towards the drawbridge entrance of, " _Medieval Banquet, A World of History And Jousting."_

Clint risks a glance at Phil and feels about eight kinds of relief rush over him when he sees that Phil's grinning despite shaking his head. "This? This is what you picked out of everything in all of New York?" 

 

"Well," Clint says, stuffing his hands in his pockets and kicking his feet as they walk towards the renaissance music playing over the speakers at the entrance. "I've always wanted to go."

 

-

 

There really are no knives or forks, but the chickens they're given (an entire chicken each! Good value, Clint thinks, even if they are on the small side) are delicious, and the beer is plentiful, and as staged as it all is, the jousting is a riot of cheers and boos and the kind of theatre that makes the blood in Clint's veins zing with excitement. Phil seems to like it too, grinning for a photo with Clint and cheering on their knight (blue and gold, with a gorgeous white horse) with as much gusto as everyone else in the crowd and booing when the red and silver knight manages to beat him. He has a bit of grease on his chin when he turns to Clint to mention something about how one of the jousters looks like someone from admin, and Clint has to stop himself from reaching out and wiping it away. 

 

Perhaps it's the atmosphere that is causing the unexpected warmth Clint feels, sitting here picking at the carcass of a chicken and watching the pantomime going on in front of him. Perhaps it's the chicken in his belly or the heavy air of a crowd in an enclosed space, but Clint's pretty sure it's not, and it's a scary thing to realise maybe he has a crush on his handler. 

 

The grease is still on Phil's chin when he turns to look at Clint again, stilling when he realises Clint's sort of staring at him. He's had more to drink than Clint has, so he's extra content-looking and it makes Clint want - something. Want to pull Phil's arm around him and take him fishing and impress him with tricks. It makes him want to kiss him, which is a surprising thought to suddenly pop into Clint's head, instead reaching out to finally wipe at the grease with a thumb and mumble an explanation which makes Phil smile wider still. 

 

The air outside afterwards is crisp and cool on their skin, waking Clint out of the sleepy feeling and making the warmth of Phil by his side that much more obvious. He's leaning a little, and perhaps four big tankards of beer was one too many for a man Clint's never actually seen drink before. "We should do this again," says Phil, joshing against Clint's shoulder with his own. He has his jacket under one arm and his hands in his pockets and looks like a different person to the one Clint once thought he was. It feels like a privilege to see Coulson like this, and Clint at once feels pleased and dutiful, like he'll earn something on a cosmic scorecard if he manages to keep this particular happy, slightly drunk person safe and content. 

 

"I'd like that," Clint replies, putting an arm around Phil's shoulders on the step down from the drawbridge so he doesn't miss his footing. Phil leans into it and that feels really rather nice, so Clint walks like that all the way back to his car til they arrive at the passenger door. 

 

It wasn't meant to be a date, that wasn't a part of the deal, and Clint's not sure if it was him or the place or maybe Phil that kind of turned it into something as date-ish as it ended up. He really wants to kiss Phil when they get back to his house, but settles for an awkward half-hand shake, half-hug across the centre console of the car before Phil climbs out and goes to his front door. Clint watches him wave from the open door before driving home, and he's not sure what to think about it.

 

-

 

There's no card now, so Clint thinks about making a fuss over going to medical to see how his arm is doing. It almost feels lazy having someone else tend to this kind of shit - the most elementary dressing-changes that Clint could do in his sleep. But he goes anyway, and they still give him stickers ('say no to heart disease!') and candy so it's not a complete waste of time. 

 

He wanders on over to Phil's office and it's been a day and a half since their totally-not-a-date so it shouldn't be a surprise to see Phil back in SHIELD-mode but it is, and he unzips the pocket of his pants to fish out a lollipop and hand it over. It's a strawberry flavoured one, judging by the colour, and Phil snorts before taking it, unwrapping it and popping it into his mouth. "That better not be your lunch," Clint says, eyeing the morning coffee cups still on the desk. Phil pulls the stick out of his mouth with a little force, loudly crunching sugar with challenge in his eyes at Clint's somewhat scandalised expression. "You can't do that! You can't - you're meant to suck it!" He realises what he's said after it comes out but sticks to his guns. It's true. "There's a reason they have a stick, dude." 

Phil chews a little more and then swallows and grins at him. "I was hungry." 

 

Clint frowns but then remembers why he actually came in here. "I went to medical," he says, showing the new bandage on his arm as if it's proof of anything. "Do I get a stamp?" 

 

Phil looks pensive for a moment before standing up and brushing the crumbs of what was probably his breakfast muffin off of his lap. "You get lunch. My treat." 

 

It's just in the canteen, and they've had lunch here before, and it's not different. Except it is, and Clint knows no one around them cares either way but he does, and it's exciting in the way only something previously mundane can be when thrown into a new light. He eats a baked potato with cheese and Phil eats some brown casserole thing, and they talk about sucking vs chewing which Clint tries desperately not to turn into something as innuendo-laden as it already is. 

 

-

 

So that's how it goes for a little while - Clint keeps bugging Phil out of his office of an evening with lollipops and dinner, and they get some sort of lunch on Phil's dime whenever Clint quietly goes to medical. Clint jokes that for all the work he stops Phil from doing at night, he probably makes up for with the time he saves him from having to chase him into medical, and Phil quietly smiles about it and doesn't say anything. 

 

Clint still keeps seeing Andy, and somehow that leads on to Clint talking to kids in a foster home a couple of times a month which is all sorts of heartbreaking and issue-dealing-with and it's hard but in the good sort of way, like your muscles hurting because you lifted weights that were heavier than you've lifted before. Andy's there for some of it when Clint starts out, but then apparently Clint's deemed a Responsible Adult and finds that he has some useful shit to tell these kids, who are all awesome in their own ragamuffin ways. 

 

Phil looks really happy about it when Clint tells him how one kid drew a picture of Clint, who's not 'Hawkeye' to them, just some guy who used to be (and will probably always be, in some way) a foster kid, and how he's found this big tub of candy at the dollar store which he's thinking of taking to the home for when the kids are good or whatever. But he saves the cola bottles to give them to Phil because he knows they're his favourite, and he likes the way he always chews off the top bit first before going for the 'coke-flavoured bit' despite repeated arguments over the fact that the whole thing tastes the same, it's just the colour that's different (which leads on to a whole mess of argument over perception vs reality and the psychology of taste).

 

-

 

It's a couple of weeks and then Phil slides another card across his desk at Clint, and it's another grid with smiley faces, though it's not as neat this time, with extra boxes added and some random smiley faces that aren't even in boxes at all. "You want to go to dinner again?" he asks at Clint's questioning expression. "I promise I won't drink so much this time." 

 

Clint grins despite himself, unable not to, as he takes a deep breath and throws a tiny cola bottle into his mouth. "You choose this time." 

Phil nods and sucks the sugar off of his own little sweet, turning back to the computer.

 

-

 

It's only fair, Clint thinks, that it's a surprise this time around, but it's kind of stressful, and he doesn't know what to wear, and is this how girls feel, he wonders? But Phil's Phil, sending him a text mid-afternoon saying Clint should wear whatever he wants since they'll be changing when they get to the venue. Which is on the one hand great, since it solves one problem, but on the other hand... what kind of place makes you change clothes? 

 

Phil picks him up once he's decided on neat jeans and a shirt - much the same as what he wore last time, though it took about 3 hours to work out the exact right shirt to go with these particular jeans. They drive, out towards where the last place was, though they end up veering off before they go past the jousting place, which Clint's not sure he's dismayed or relieved about. 

 

They drive into the woods, the sky growing darker as they get onto smaller and smaller roads til they end up in the grounds of a tall, grand mansion with a dozen or so cars parked outside it. Clint feels woefully underdressed, but Phil locks up and strides confidently up to the front door, where a woman signs them in and leads them into a side room which appears to be a giant wardrobe. They have all their measurements on file, apparently, and Phil looks like he's seeing the most delicious plan unfold before his very eyes when the lady brings out their clothes. 

 

Clint's not sure he's ever worn a waistcoat with a pocket watch before, certainly not one that's dark brown with cream pinstripes, with a silky brown bowtie and an honest to god bowler hat. Phil comes out in something much the same, though perhaps a little finer cut and grey instead of brown, with a black bolo tie with a higher cut collar than Clint's. They're both wearing spats and have cheap fake guns in holsters at their hips. 

 

"Here," the lady hands them both pairs of gloves and a laminated card, and then it dawns on Clint what exactly is going on.

"A murder mystery?!" 

Phil tries not to grin and fails, nodding and visibly trying to stop himself from jumping up and down on the spot. "You're kind of amazing, sir," Clint says, rushing to a mirror and doing his best to comb his hair flat before Phil takes the comb from his hand and pops the hat on his head for him.

"We don't have time," he says, pulling him towards the door at the other end of the room.

 

According to Clint's card, he's a member of New Havenstone's corrupt sheriff's force, the same as Phil. They come out of the dressing room into a beautiful room with a few other guests milling about in period costume, the women looking particularly amazing in their layered, frilly dresses and dainty white gloves, hair in ringlets of varying degrees of fanciness. According to the card, they're all at the manor of one Chester Bridgeman the Third, big cheese in town, who's decided to put some vague taxation issue to bed with all the town's glitterati in one place (along with generous helpings of dinner, Clint assumes).

 

The guy comes out and invites everyone to eat, which they do (with gusto) promising they'll talk about things afterwards, which of course they never do, because just as the petits fours are being cleared away, there's a scream from some other room and the big cheese guy's been shot by assailants unknown.

 

It's all very amateur dramatics, and Clint fucking loves it, and Phil watches Clint loving it and even gets into the action himself, pointing out that so-and-so left at some point and could be the murderer. The assembled guests troop from room to room, working out rather obvious clues that are nevertheless far too much fun to not play along with. 

 

Cocktails are served throughout, til the butler is accused of being the killer by the town librarian, or something, Clint's lost interest in the actual goings on and is just watching Phil being excited about such a silly thing. There's no chicken grease on his chin but Clint wants to touch his face anyway, and perhaps it's the cocktails and the dorky suits, but when they move from the library into the stairwell, Clint tugs him to the back of the crowd and into an alcove behind the door, touching his chin just like he'd wanted to and leaning in for a kiss. The brims of their hats knock together and push upwards, but Clint doesn't care, because Phil's kissing him back, a hand splayed across his buttoned up belly that seems to slide across and feel him for a second before pushing him away. 

 

There's a maid, in black with the frilly lace hat thing, looking at them and turning pink, and Clint realises what he's done and apologises to Phil but in the girl's direction. He thinks about moving away and going back to the group or just running out, into the woods and away but then there's a hand on his cheek pulling him back to look at Phil's face, which isn't angry or awkward or any of the other things which would break Clint's heart. It's soft, and smiling, and then they're kissing again for a brief moment that's crystalline in its perfection before Phil's tugging him out of the alcove and back to the group. He winds their fingers together gently, giving Clint time and opportunity to move away, but he doesn't, and it's probably not appropriate behaviour for two sheriffs in the wild west to be holding hands in polite company but no one seems to notice or care.

 

Clint's lost track of the mystery now, but Phil's always been more focussed on this kind of thing, whispering to Clint that it was the Post Master about fifteen minutes before it gets dramatically revealed that he's right. Clint squeezes his hand and actually feels proud of Phil, his smart, clever friend who he kissed not half an hour ago, who he wants to kiss again. 

 

They change back into their modern-day clothes after having their picture taken - a part of the ticket price apparently, and they're good photos as these things go, one with them sitting stiff and solemn-faced side by side, another with them back to back, plastic guns drawn. Clint clutches the little cardboard presentation frame thing in the passenger seat and tries not to fidget too much.

 

They drive through the tree-covered roads til they open back out and the lights of the city shine in the near distance, singing gently along to the radio and chatting about the night, but neatly not talking about the kiss, or the hand holding (or how Clint's hand feels bereft and cold with only the cardboard of the photos to cling to). It's not til they're back on roads Clint recognises that Phil says, "Listen," and Clint has to stop himself from whining. "I had fun tonight," Phil cuts over him, and he reaches to take Clint's hand and squeeze it. "A lot of fun." 

 

" _But_ ," Clint says, cause he knows it's coming, and god is he an idiot for falling like he has. Idiot, idiot, idiot. People always wait til you care about them before up and leaving, before they realise you aren't quite what they wanted, and yes, he knows real life isn't the same as trying to find foster parents that won't get bored of you but is it? Really? And wow, Clint thinks, this actually feels like some kind of progress, and he clings to the thought that he can tell Andy about this revelatory moment like it's the silver lining of a darkening cloud, til Phil has to take his hand away to use the turn signal and all he can focus on is how cold his hand is again. 

 

"But I'm responsible for you in the field, and I'm not sure I can be objective about you as an asset if-" Phil stops himself, perhaps realising that he's retreating into tried, tested and approved SHIELDian language and it's not what he means to be saying. "I like you," he finishes lamely, and then he shrugs apologetically like it's an awkward thing that he's sorry to inconvenience Clint with. Suddenly Clint wishes they weren't in the car, because it's hard to shove someone up against a wall and kiss them passionately when they're trying to drive. He settles instead for reaching for Phil's hand, and then bypassing it, since it'll have to move again what with all the driving, putting his hand on Phil's thigh instead.

 

"I like you too," he replies, as eloquent as a five year old trying to make friends, and again with the childhood shit? Andy's going to have a field day. 

"But I have to order you around," Phil says, and Clint knows what he means - he gets that it's hard for his handler to be objective about him as an asset if... etcetera.

But Clint's always been a jackass, so he smirks and squeezes Phil's thigh.  "You can order me around." 

 

Phil lets out a very undignified snort, saying "Clint!" and throwing a scandalised glance his way. Clint's sorry they're in the car again. "You know what I mean." 

 

It's been three years they've worked together, and Phil is the first handler Clint had that seemed to listen to him and let him do the job he wanted to do  - which is to say, the job SHIELD wanted to do, but more efficiently. When he first got assigned to him, Clint thought it was a punishment, getting the most no-nonsense handler in the bunch as a last resort before they truly gave up and sent him back into the ether from whence he came (or shot him), but then Phil had _listened_ , and Clint would have jumped for joy if he hadn't been laying out on a rooftop at the time. Coulson had hummed through the comm-line and agreed that if Clint was up on the roof he logically had a better idea of sight-lines and if he needed to, he could move once the target was in the area. 

 

Anyway, that had been amazing, and their working relationship had reached the point where Clint didn't think twice before telling Coulson when something 'felt bad'. Other handlers had, to a person, chuffed at him and ignored his advice, though to their credit, they didn't blame him when things did go south. But still! Clint wanted to do his job the best he could and Coulson was so far the only person at SHIELD that had unquestioningly allowed him to do that. 

 

So. That's what Phil's saying is the problem. 

 

"Assign me to somebody else," Clint shrugs, like it's not the huge, awful concept that it is. 

"I don't..." they're close to Clint's apartment now, maybe a minute away. "I don't want to." 

Phil glances in Clint's direction again and he's worrying at his bottom lip, looking so goddamn constipated. Clint's almost sorry to have caused him such stress, when he's so good with medical now. He squeezes the meat of Phil's thigh again before soothing little circles with his thumb. Phil makes a soft, slightly unhappy sigh at it. 

 

They pull up by the front of Clint's apartment building and Phil stops the car completely, sudden city-silence once the engine shuts off. "I should-" he starts, as if he didn't just switch off his car's engine, as if he isn't going to kiss Clint right now. 

"You should come up," Clint replies, reasonable and straightforward, since Andy huffs at him when he skirts around the things he wants. "I want you to."

"OK," Phil says, which is at odds with the things he was saying earlier but Clint's not going to complain. 

 

-

 

Clint unlocks the front door and then leads Phil up the four flights of stairs behind him, which he's done before with other lovers, a long time ago, but this feels bigger somehow, like it's not really Clint making this happen but fate, which is so cheesy he shakes his head at himself. When they get to his door, Phil suddenly looks worried, and Clint realises perhaps he thought the head-shake was for him, so he kisses Phil instead, pulling him close and tucking him between himself and the door before clumsily opening the door behind him and catching him before they both fall through it. 

 

"Sorry," they both say, right into each other's mouths, since they're not letting go of each other now. It's all coming out at once, hands roaming and tugging at clothing, mouths tripping over one another in a messy, eager dance that is more fervent nipping and biting than anything so coordinated as a kiss. 

 

Clint actually wants to show Phil his apartment some time, but right now there's just a bed somewhere and various obstacles between it and them. It takes far too long to get there, but Clint's lost a shirt and one shoe, and Phil is sans-jacket and belt by the time they're tumbling into it, so it could be worse. Clint undoes Phil's shirt buttons one by one, fighting the urge to rip them off, but still too impatient to undo them all, tugging it off over Phil's head before sliding his hands over the chest it reveals. He presses his face there, into the soft hair on Phil's chest whilst fumbling at the fastening on Phil's pants, only looking up when there's a tug at his hair and then lips on his own again. 

 

"Tell me what you want," Phil says eventually, both of their cocks hard and obvious but still shrouded in layer upon layer of traitorous cloth. And he's doing it again - waiting for Clint to tell him what he wants rather than telling him himself, and just that, that incredible trust Phil always has in him - has always had, has Clint unconsciously rutting against his hip. 

 

"Fuck me?" Clint says, and it was intended as a breathy, sultry ' _fuck me,_ ' but it comes out like a question or a plea, made moreso by the way he can't stop _clinging_.

"Yeah?" Phil replies, and Clint thinks that might have been intended differently too. He nods, letting go of Phil's Enigma Machine fly in favour of his own, easily thumbing it open and then kicking his jeans off along with his remaining boot. Phil does likewise, rolling onto his back and letting Clint pull his pants free before they roll around together, making out and grabbing each other's underpanted asses til Clint thinks he might do something undignified if they don't get this show on the road. 

 

"Do you have..." Phil begins, looking at Clint expectantly. Clint looks back, nonplussed before realising what Phil's getting at, and why they've just been making out like teenagers instead of doing anything more... intimate. 

"Lube?! Of course!" He's not sure why he sounds so chipper over it, god he really is like a kid about this, and he's very consciously pushing thoughts about What This Means out of his head for later, or perhaps never. Not til after he's had sex with his handler, anyhow. He rolls away and fumbles in the night stand for condoms and lube and then turns back, catching his breath at the sight of Phil, still in his underwear, laying there watching him and rubbing lazily over his cock with the palm of his hand. 

 

Clint tosses the stuff on the bed and dives for Phil's crotch, batting his hands away to pull the fabric down and let the hot, thick flesh of his dick spring free. He rubs his cheek against it and Phil sighs, one hand coming to rest against the side of Clint's neck and Clint isn't sure he's ever felt so comforted at the same time as being as turned on as he is; it's almost scary. 

 

Clint kisses Phil there, at the base of his cock where it's just hair and faint musk, and he's fully intending to suck Phil's dick once he's gotten a good look at it, but Phil pulls him up and they're kissing again, which is fine as far as Clint's concerned and even better when he realises that Phil has lube on the fingers that are sneaking between his buttcheeks. Clint wriggles out of his underwear so he can hitch one leg over Phil's hip to give him better access and of course Phil's gentle with it. Firm, still but gentle and sweet, taking his time like he doesn't want any of it to hurt. It's so good Clint feels like he's gonna cry. 

 

After a while, when Clint feels soft and loose and already a little bit fucked out (in the best possible way) Clint feels something being pressed into his hand, and he thinks for an incongruous split second that it's another one of those cards, _get fucked nine times get a tenth time free,_ but it's a condom, and yes, that makes more sense, but Clint's losing his mind and can't work out why _he'd_ need a condom, since wasn't... Oh! Oh of course. Clint laughs to himself and tears it open, pinching the end and rolling it down Phil's cock til it's ready - and he's not sure where the kink came from but the sight of a be-condomed cock, ready for the sole purpose of fucking someone, fucking _him_ , has always turned him on something awful, especially when there's lube shining slick all over it.

 

Clint starts to turn, onto his belly so it's easier for Phil to fuck him, but Phil stops him and turns him back, hitching his leg higher and then pressing the blunt head of his cock against Clint's ass, up and down, catching a few times before slowly - slowly -sinking in. "Is this ok?" Phil asks, as he breaches further into Clint with one strong hand holding a leg right where it needs to be. Clint just nods wordlessly, because again with the comfort/turned on thing, all he can really do is hold onto Phil tightly, kissing every bit of him he can reach.

 

"Talk to me," Phil says, as his hips rotate the smallest amount on their way back in and then slowly out again, and Clint can tell he's taking pains to be gentle so that it loosens him up, so that soon he can pound into him til Clint can't remember his own name. 

 

"So good," Clint mumbles against skin prickling with sweat. "Fuck me, please." 

"Anything," Phil replies, tongue sneaking out to lick it's way back into Clint's mouth. 

"Faster." 

"I don't want to hurt you." 

"You won't." 

 

Phil stops moving, just for a second, and Clint has an epiphany - now he gets it. Of all the things that Phil always listens to him over, the one thing they still butt heads over is this - Phil doesn't want Clint to _hurt_ , and that's it, that's the whole reason, and any argument over Phil looking bad, or Clint not being on top form when it counts - it's all bullshit. Phil just cares about him, and it's simple and terrifying and wonderful all at once. 

 

"You won't hurt me. Trust me." Clint can feel Phil swallow before he speaks, taking a deep breath. Clint only ever says 'trust me' when he's so sure, when he _knows_ , and Phil rearranges them over so he's bearing down over Clint, pushing Clint's legs back when he raises them both and fucking sharply into him. 

"Like this?" he asks, and Clint, too busy seeing stars to really respond, just nods blindly and flails for the slats of the bed-head behind him. 

 

There's a hand around his cock seconds later, and Phil murmuring something about how hard and glorious it is, about how delicious and perfect it looks as he's jacking it off in time with the sharp, hard thrusts into Clint's body. Clint has no idea when his orgasm starts, cause he feels like he's almost at the top of a mountain all of a sudden with no memory of the climb there, and he's wondering where it started, when Phil first slid his fingers over his hole, or when they kissed against the door, or when Phil first said, "go ahead," on a mission that Clint argued over? It's a handshake that Clint thinks of, when he finally hits the apex, a broad, firm hand in his and a calm expression of formal politeness; the moment they first met. 

 

Those same hands are on Clint when he blinks his eyes open, realising that the gasping sounds are coming from him, and the same face looking at him with anything but formality or politeness. He eases out of Clint and disappears for a moment, coming back with a box of tissues which he proceeds to daub at Clint with, and for once, Clint's happy to let someone tend to him without making a fuss. 

 

He's sorry he didn't get to see Phil come, didn't get to watch his face as he tumbled over the edge of his own orgasm, filling that debauched condom which Clint also managed to miss getting a good look at. Next time, he thinks, which is definitely getting ahead of himself, but there has to be a next time, doesn't there? It's plain to see how perfectly matched they are, so it stands to reason that there will be lots of sex in their future. Clint doesn't even feel too panicky about thinking of 'their' future, either. He's got it bad. 

 

\--

 

Clint had figured that once they could both catch their breaths again, Phil would be all business, explaining all the reasons this was a bad idea, and he's sort of ready for it. There's a bottle of whiskey somewhere in the cupboard, and plenty of alcohol in stores, though it's pretty expensive. Still. As coping mechanisms go, Clint's aren't perfect but he does have them. He'll be fine.

 

But the 'listen..' or 'we should talk' doesn't come. Phil lounges on the bed, pulling Clint close and kissing him, hands wandering everywhere and making Clint feel heartbreakingly safe and warm, til they both fall asleep with the lights on. Clint wakes up an hour or so later to find the bed empty, and he thinks perhaps they're just not going to talk about this at all, and he'll go in to work and find Phil working at his desk, refusing to acknowledge that they just _had sex._ That they _kissed_ and then they _had sex_. And it was _really good._ He thinks that for a moment of lung-seizing sadness before realising there are sounds coming from the kitchen.

 

He pads out, still naked, into the living room to find Phil half dressed in his own clothes, a half-buttoned shirt over underpants and socks Clint thinks maybe never came off, searching through the back of the fridge. "Do you not have flour?" Phil asks, turning to frown at Clint. Clint perches on one of the bar stools and shrugs. 

 

Phil hums and goes back to the fridge, where Clint's pretty sure the most edible thing is a jar of expired mustard. "What are you doing?"

"I was going to make pancakes," Phil replies, like that's what people do at 2am after they had Bad Idea sex. 

 

But instead of saying something like 'listen...' or 'we should talk', Clint says, "I didn't know you cooked."

"Oh, you know," Phil replies, looking in one of the cupboards where there's a half dozen cans of soup he picked up on sale a few months ago. They're still there because they taste atrocious. He doesn't tell Clint _what_ he ought to know, though, just keeps looking through drawers and cupboards til Clint realises he's having a little freak out rather than actually making them something to eat. 

 

He gets up from the stool and remembers he's naked when his thighs stick to the pleather cushioned top of it, making an undignified 'shlupp' sound as he unsticks himself. Phil doesn't seem to notice, or if he does, he doesn't say anything, rifling through the cutlery drawer as if it might unearth bounties untold if he just looks hard enough. 

"Phil," Clint says, moving around the counter to gently close the drawer and take Phil's hands. "Are you ok?" 

Phil doesn't look at him, just stares at their linked hands. "Just hungry." 

 

Clint's never seen Phil like this, so completely unsure of himself, and all he can think of to do is pull him close and press his lips to Phil's forehead. "It's ok. I'm hungry too," he says quietly, arms wrapped around Phil. 

 

They stand like that, gently swaying and clinging to each other, til the the linoleum floor gets too cold on Clint's feet and he wordlessly pulls Phil back to the bedroom. "Let's have breakfast tomorrow," he says, and Phil hums and nods, and holds on to Clint as he falls asleep.

 

-

 

"So," Clint says the next morning, surprised that Phil really is still there, adorably sleep-mussed and bleary. He looks so relaxed, though, it makes Clint want to keep him looking like this forever. "We should talk." The words feel ok coming out, after Clint's built them up in his mind til they're as big as the Hollywood sign. "I wanna date you." There. Andy would be proud. 

 

Clint almost feels a little bad for springing such a thing at Phil like this when he's barely awake, but it's worth it for the unguarded look of joy it puts on his face. It soon clouds over again though, when he remembers that such a thing has as many caveats as it does.

 

"I'm gonna sign up," Clint says, sitting crosslegged on his side of the bed. "To the thing Fury's been banging on about for months." 

"The Avengers?" 

 

Clint nods decisively, though he'd not really considered Fury's Angels before now. It's SHIELD, but it's sort of an offshoot, so Phil probably won't even be working on it much. Not on field duty anyhow.

 

"You don't have to do that," Phil says, reaching out a hand. It's a surprise how simple it is to just hold on to each other like that, and Clint catches his hand and squeezes it. 

"I want to. Me and Nat, kicking ass and taking names. Like the old days. Besides, if you get Stark on board you'll need someone with the clearance to complain to." 

 

Phil shakes his head, and it's not all that surprising, because he's been the one who's had to pitch the Avenger Initiative to Clint countless times, and listened to all the reasons Clint's had against it. "You don't even know who'll be commanding it yet." 

 

Clint shrugs. "You're putting the team together. I'm sure you'll find someone who's not awful." 

 

Phil raises his eyebrows and then rubs his eyes with one hand. "I need coffee."

 

It takes longer than it should to get dressed and get out - daylight throws each of them into a new and interesting perspective which neither of them are in a hurry to stop exploring, but soon they’re in the diner on the corner of Clint’s street, holding hands over the sticky tabletop.

“Not exactly up to our usual standards,” Clint says once they’re out of earshot of their gruff, candyfloss haired waitress. 

 

Phil looks fondly at their clasped hands between them and smiles. “I like it,” he says.

 

When it comes time to pay, they both get out their wallets but Clint manages to get there first. He thinks about making a joke about how Phil’s earned it, but knows it would come out wrong. Still, Clint’s not called Hawkeye for nothing, and he spies a tell-tale sliver of yellow in Phil’s wallet. 

“Is that the card I made you?” 

Phil gets kind of bashful, and it’s all Clint can do not to launch himself across the table infront of the whole diner to kiss the blush right off of his face. Instead, he pulls out the two cards Phil gave him, one of which is still neat and crisp, the other showing signs of wear from all the times Clint’s twirled it between his fingers in medical, and there’s half a bloody fingerprint along one edge. It’s become something of a lucky charm. 

“You wanna start a new one?” Clint asks, grabbing a Sweet‘N Low packet from next to the sticky bottles of syrup. “Gimme a pen.”

 

“A new one for what?” Phil asks, dutifully handing over the pen that Clint’s not in the least bit surprised he had in his pocket. 

“Sex!” Clint replies, flashing the brightest of smiles at the waitress when she takes this exact moment to come by to retrieve their bill. 

 

The scandal in Phil’s eyes doesn’t meet his mouth, which is caught halfway between grinning and grimacing. The waitress retreats and Phil leans in, plucking the Sweet‘N Low packet from Clint’s hands and, incongruously, putting it into his wallet. 

 

“I’m pretty sure sex doesn’t need a rewards system, Clint.” 

“Ok well,” Clint says, grabbing another packet and hiding it behind his hand as he draws a tiny smiley face on it. “I’ll just keep this for my records, then.” 

 

 


End file.
